El Caracol: The Story of Alfonso - Labor Camp Child

By Yolanda Espinosa Espinoza

Alfonso Cruz Espinosa's life was not an easy one but one supported by the rich cultural values of his Mexican ancestry. 'Fonso was born into the loving arms of his parents in 1927, in El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora, La Reina de Los Cielos y Los Angeles - Los Angeles, California - where his parents had settled after immigrating from M

• Language: English
• Publisher: TOPLINK PUBLISHING, LLC
• Release date: Dec 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781948262521

Yolanda Espinosa Espinoza

Yolanda Espinosa Espinoza graduated from San Jose State University with a master's degree in Art History/Cultural Anthropology. During her teaching career, she taught art history and social studies. She is now retired and lives in Baja California, Mexico, with her husband.

Book preview

cover.jpg

El Caracol

The Story of Alfonso

Labor Camp Child

Image_1.png

Yolanda Espinosa Espinoza

Copyright © 2017 by Yolanda Espinosa Espinoza.

Paperback: 978-1-948262-51-4

eBook: 978-1-948262-52-1

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Ordering Information:

For orders and inquiries, please contact:

1-888-375-9818

www.toplinkpublishing.com

[e-mail]

Printed in the United States of America

ABOUT THE TITLE

I gave much thought to the title of this book about my father, Alfonso Cruz Espinosa. Toward the end of his life he wrote a poem entitled El Caracol, which was an analogy of his life’s journey. I was not immediately drawn to this phrase as a title for this book, however – in time – it became the only title that woul d do.

The Spanish word caracol has several definitions that parallel my father’s story.

A caracol is a conch shell: a spiral shell that provides portable housing for a mollusk. The word portable stood out in describing the constant moving that was part of my father’s life. Shells such as these have been used by people for ages as a rallying horn. The idea of a rallying horn captured my father’s outspoken work for equality in his adult years.

A caracol can be a winding staircase or a perilous journey. My father’s life journey was certainly peppered with difficult and harrowing experiences. My grandfather referred to the Grapevine, the treacherous path from the Sierra Nevada Mountains into the San Joaquin Valley, as "El Caracol" that, in turn, inspired the title of my father’s poem.

In the Hispanic world, a caracol is the winding mechanism that allows a watch or clock to keep precise time. This idea alludes to the indigenous concept of history being cyclical rather than chronological – an idea that my father found fascinating. His appreciation for the story of history prompted him to keep detailed notes and tapes documenting his life. I used these primary sources as I gathered information for this book. And, most serendipitous, a caracol is a snail of the color periwinkle, a color whose name just happened to be the same as that of my grandmother Rita’s favorite flower.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book grew from a model lesson that I, the author, created and presented for the California History–Social Science Project in 1994 at California State University, Bakersfield. After subsequent presentations, I received encouragement from fellow teachers to expand the lesson into a book. I thank them for that encourage ment.

I thank Dr. Jess Nieto, my history professor at Bakersfield College, in 1971, for an assignment he gave, requiring his students to write a biography about a Hispanic whom we admired. I sat down with my father and learned about the challenges he faced in his youth and young adult years. Dr. Nieto encouraged me to write a book about my father. That suggestion stayed in my heart and thirty-nine years later I did write this book, the fruit of that original assignment.

I must acknowledge the work of my aunt, Frances (Francisca) Espinosa, who wrote a detailed and poignant account of the lives of my paternal grandparents. Her book, These Precious People, provided me with much of the early history of my grandparents. Her exhaustive research of dates and places helped to fill in valuable missing pieces of my father’s story.

I thank my sister Rosemary Edmiaston, my brother-in-law Jeff Edmiaston, and my daughter Aimee Espinoza for their honest and intimate feedback. Others who shared their invaluable time and suggestions include: Dr. Margaret Rose, Dr. Ronald Dolkart, Ms. Susan Chavez, Ms. Katherine Harper, Mrs. Christine Gonzalez, Ms. Rita Sluga, Mrs. Elsa Martinez, and Robert and Josephine Espinosa.

I thank my husband, Reynold Klent Espinoza, for his patience, encouragement, and assistance with computer technology.

I thank my children, daughters Deana and Aimee, and my sons, Mario and Matthew Espinoza, for their faith in me and their unconditional support. I am beholden to my grandchildren in whose eyes I see my parents smiling back at me.

I thank my students: all those who spent part of their lives in my classroom inspiring me to be the best story teller I could be.

To my grandparents for their courage and faith:

Alfonso Carrillo Espinosa

Rita Cruz Espinosa

Odilon Ramirez Zaragoza

Manuela Morales Zaragoza

To my parents:

Al and Mary Espinosa

To Dr. Jess Nieto who planted the seed for which this book is the harvest.

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed it is the only thing that ever has.

— Margaret Mead

Contents

PROLOGUE: No Spanish Allowed

PART ONE

Las Estrellas / The Stars

Los Ojos / The Eyes

Hasta La Muerte / Until Death

Los Angeles / The Angels

El Caracol / The Grapevine

La Niebla / The Fog

El Paraíso / The Paradise

PART TWO

Escuela / School

Tres Mundos / Three Worlds

La Lucha / The Struggle

Invisíble / Invisible

La Guerra / The War!

Diego Rivera

PART THREE

Ilusiónes / Illusions

La Locura / The Madness

Puertas Azules / The Blue Doors

Odisea / Odyssey

La Mancha / The Stain

Epilogue

El Caracol – The Poem

Spanish / English Glossary

PROLOGUE

No Spanish Allowed

THE BLACK AND WHITE SIGN on the wall of the hospital ward called Wayside was well understood by the men, though they neither read nor spoke English: NO SPANISH ALLOWED. This ward was for the Mexicanos who had come to live their last days while the tisico, tuberculosis, ate away at their lungs. Alfonso eyed the sign warily. He was one of the few who could read the caustic words. The nurses who tended the men were uncomfortable with the foreign banter spoken among the men, and so they complained and got their wish – No Spanish All owed.

Now the ward called Wayside at Springville Sanitarium was silent. In the late night hours, between the uncontrollable coughing fits that seemed to consume the skeletal bodies, there was silence. In the night, orderlies would quietly remove a corpse from a bed and the ward would be steeped in a deeper silence. Too often, now, Alfonso would awake from a restless sleep to find the bed beside him empty. To him it seemed this ward had become like a tomb; the once jovial exchanges and reminiscences hushed.

One night, unable to sleep, Alfonso contemplated the effect that this decree had had on the Mexicanos. It seemed that the silence hurried them along to their death. Alfonso wanted to be able to talk to Miguel who was also nineteen and who had recently come from Mexico. He longed to reminisce with Señor Aguilar who had worked with Alfonso’s father in the algodón, the cotton. These men knew almost no English but they needed to express themselves. To Alfonso it seemed that hearing and speaking the words about family and sweethearts and run-ins with los jefes was like healing ointment. Perhaps this verbal sharing could not heal his friends, but it could at least soften the nightmare of impending death.

What could he do? Who could he talk to about this injustice? He had heard that Dr. Winn was the chief physician and oversaw all the workings of the sanitarium, but would Dr. Winn listen to a nineteen year old boy who couldn’t even walk a few steps from his bed without the help of a nurse? Would Dr. Winn listen to a boy who had dropped out of high school and whose only skill was chopping cotton and picking grapes? Would Dr. Winn listen to a Mexican?

As soon as the early light seeped through the curtains, Alfonso summoned a nurse. The nurse looked perplexed when he told her he needed to see the chief physician. She shook her head incredulously as she helped him into a wheelchair and escorted him through the ward towards Dr. Winn’s office.

As the wheelchair made its echoing approach down the cavernous corridor, Alfonso tried to calm the nerves that had oftentimes triggered a hemorrhage. The nurse tapped lightly on Dr. Winn’s office door.

Come in, came the stern, no-nonsense voice of the doctor.

Alfonso was wheeled into the office and Dr. Winn stared, surprised, at the young man.

The doctor’s eyebrows came together at a furrow on his forehead and his lips were pursed. Had he ever been visited by one of his patients? Not that he could recall. Dr. Winn peered at the pale, emaciated young man and nodded for him to speak.

Doctor Winn . . . doctor . . . Alfonso stammered, suddenly feeling very tired. "Doctor, I am Alfonso . . . I’m from Wayside . . . I am a Mexicano . . . but as you can see . . . I speak English." His sentences were short and choppy, his breathing shallow and winded.

Dr. Winn nodded acknowledgement and motioned for Alfonso to continue.

"The other men . . . they don’t speak English . . .

Doctor, if you could please . . . try to understand . . . they are not allowed to speak . . . their language . . . and so . . . they don’t speak at all . . . Doctor . . . . can you imagine not being allowed to speak?"

Before Dr. Winn could respond, Alfonso continued, afraid to breathe too deeply.

"Doctor, you know we are all dying. This disease . . . will take us all away soon.

My friends are dying but they can’t . . . they can’t share their fears . . . their stories . . . they are afraid to weep . . . or to laugh . . . because . . . it will surely be . . . in Spanish."

The furrow between Dr. Winn’s eyebrows grew deeper. Alfonso sensed anger. What made him think he could sway this important man? Alfonso lowered his eyes.

Please, Doctor Winn . . . our language . . . is all . . . we have left.

Alfonso dared not look up. Those few words had taken all his energy. He could hear the nurse’s foot tapping nervously behind him. Dr. Winn stood and pointed toward the door. The nurse turned the chair around and wheeled Alfonso out of the office of the chief physician.

My name is Alfonso and I have a story to tell you. Before I left this world, my daughter, Yolanda, would share with me how concerned she was with many of her students who seemed to have lost their will to succeed. Many of her students seemed to care little about their lives or about their education.